


Blesiloquent

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [314]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas, M/M, The Blind Banker scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:39:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: blesiloquent: adjective: to speak with a stammer:rare, obscure, from 1656Origin: ½ Latin: locu-, loc-. Other ½ unknown. Bles is potentially Old English. Maybe Norse. Or Latin





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr post. What if the boys met when they bumped into each other as they did in the Blind Banker scene, and at Christmas?
> 
> Etymology from this article from 2011:  
> http://www.thecrimson.com/article/2011/10/20/blesiloquent-the-word/

"Sorry!" 

"Oh, no, ccompletely my fault - I - I wasss -" Sherlock closed his mouth tightly as the shorter blond man looked at him curiously.

"Are you alright? I didn't - ?" He looked him over for any injuries.

"Doctor? No - just returned from ssservice - damn. I - "

"Breathe." The gentle kindness in his voice calmed him somehow, like no one else's ever had, not even those he recalled with a shudder as a child, who had been paid to 'cure' him of his - his mother had called him 'blesiloquent,' as if a fancy word could make his inability to get words out easily made it better.

"Sorry. I - wasn't looking where I was going." He narrowed his eyes at the military doctor who was still there, gently touching his arm. "I never apologise."

"No. I don't think you do." He said with a slight smile. "Listen - can I buy you a cuppa, or - I was just -"

For some reason Sherlock nodded, and stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson. There's a Chinese place, just around the corner, it's freezing and I'm a bit peckish -"

"My treat - I - " He looked down at his watch. "It's Christmas Eve. I didn't even realise."

John laughed. "Me either. Shall we?"

Sherlock found himself following this odd man with a limp without question, and wondered if this unsettling sensation roiling through his stomach could be... no. He didn't. Things, people, didn't happen to him like this - purely by randomness, on this day, of all days, when he had finally decided enough was enough. He glanced up at the overcast sky above him, and wondered why. He didn't believe in anything - and yet - he found himself believing in a man he had already deduced to be as nearly as broken as he was himself. And somehow, it made complete sense to his usually logical, unsentimental mind. Complete sense. He shrugged and found himself sitting down at a table across from the man he knew was the beginning of his life.

"So. What do you do?"

"Me?"

"You. You were in a hurry to do something." John looked at him closely and nodded, seeing everything. "I - went for a walk instead, thought if I could maybe lose myself in Chinatown for a bit, it might -"

"Consulting detective."

John looked at him blankly.

"I solve puzzles. When I'm clean. When they let me onto their crime scenes - sometimes they wait too long, and I can't always tell things from the terrible photographs they take, they usually miss the important bits - mostly they call me in when the press is hounding them -"

John looked up at the waitress and ordered a lo mein. "You will eat some of it." 

Sherlock glared at him for a moment then nodded. There was something in the man's voice that brooked no argument, and he felt his heart flutter for a moment. Ridiculous. Utterly - "Preposterous."

"Hmmm?" 

"Damn. I said that out loud. Are you a psychologist or something?"

"No. Surgeon. Was. A good one." He placed his hands flat on the table and Sherlock watched as his left hand began to tremble uncontrollably. "Can't anymore. Useless."

Sherlock found himself covering John's hands with his own. "No. Not useless." He felt John's hands still under his. "I - this may sss - damn - sound ridiculous, but I could use a man like you - you are different - you ssseem to -"

"Breathe," John whispered as his dark blue eyes seemed to spark to life before Sherlock's eyes. "Just breathe."

Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath, let it go slowly and bit his lip, then began again. "I'm looking at a flat. I could use a flat mate -"

"Ah. Thank you." The waitress bowed and moved away as John pushed the overflowing plate of food to the center of the table. "Eat and we'll take a look at this flat after?"

Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. "Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

John had always been confident in who and what he was, from an early age. He'd had a plan. He'd be the top of his class from day one. Easily done. Top in his university. A bit harder, but still - again, didn't break much of a sweat, and then onto Med School, leaving with a top Surgical Residency in his pocket. Then - a girl. No. Not a girl. The only person he thought he would ever love left him. He was too focused on everything but her, she had said. He didn't need her enough, he was too - too capable, too secure, too sure of himself, she said. He tried to explain he was doing it for her, thought she liked he was working to become something more - but he could only stammer as she packed her bags, kissed him on the cheek, dropped her keys on their kitchen table, and didn't look back at him as she went out the front door. So, he did what he did best, passed through his Residency faster and better than anyone ever had, then to everyone's shock, joined the military. He had wanted to lose himself, he thought if he was as good at losing himself as he was at everything else he had ever done - no one would ever see him again. 

He nearly succeeded.

He returned to London with nothing and after a month of realising he had essentially become invisible, he had one last appointment with his therapist, who tried to make him believe there was a reason for him to go on. He smiled at her when their time was up, picked up his stick and walked out of her office, already knowing what he -

"Sorry!" He looked into the eyes of the most extraordinary looking man he had ever seen and smiled gently. He had those dark curls he had only read about, glittering green - blue eyes, with a shot of gold in them - sharp cheekbones - lips that belonged to one of those Greek statues - in fact, John wasn't quite sure he was real until he spoke or tried to.

"Oh, no, ccompletely my fault - I - I wasss -"

John saw the all the signs of past and possibly current drug use, and knew the panicked look in his eyes from his own glances in the mirror each morning when he dared to look.

"Are you alright? I didn't - ?" He did a quick survey to make sure he wasn't injured, and gently took his pulse, confirming his theory, feeling the scars under his fingertips.

"Doctor? No - just returned from ssservice - damn. I - " He realised he was being scanned in return, the beautiful, damaged eyes could see everything, perhaps too much - that no one had ever dared to -

"Breathe." That seemed to startle him from his examination, and he took a sharp breath in, somewhat surprised to be taking orders from a stranger. John almost laughed. He didn't have a chance.

"Sorry. I - wasn't looking where I was going." There - the stammer wasn't something that happened all the time. He had startled it out of him, he was as tightly strung and controlled as he had once been, but John had knocked him from his comfort zone - and it was as if - "I never apologise."

John nearly laughed, but managed to smile instead. "No. I don't think you do....listen, can I buy you a cuppa? Or, I was just -"

"Sherlock Holmes." He put out a trembling hand and John took it in his. For once someone figured out he was left-handed - watch - stupid, of course, but most people didn't regard him at all now, so -

"John Watson. There's a Chinese place..." He couldn't remember the last time he heard himself speak with the old confidence, and he wondered why he thought this obviously intelligent, observant and gorgeous man could possibly want to waste time with him -

"My treat -" Sherlock had looked away for the first time to check his watch. "It's Christmas Eve. I didn't even realise." John hadn't either, and he wondered why Ella had seen him today - then pushed the thought away, it had been an emergency appointment, he had made it early enough to get in today, he knew it was only a question of time.

"I didn't either. Shall we?"

 

After a meal of a shared lo mein, somehow he had managed to get Sherlock to eat at least half of it, he found himself being introduced to an older woman, who obviously knew Sherlock well enough to embrace him before they traveled up the steps to the flat. Sherlock opened the door, a bit embarrassed at the chaos, but seemed to be proud of the home he could offer him. Why him? What did Sherlock see in him, that no one had ever seen before?

"Very nice. It's lovely -"

"There is another bedroom upstairs if you think you'll be needing it -"

John found himself looking into Sherlock's hopeful eyes and shook his head. "One is all we need, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, good. So, you'll be staying, Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be staying."


	3. Chapter 3

Mrs. Hudson left them to it and disappeared back down to her flat, though neither of them heard her go. Sherlock blinked first. "There are things you should know -"

John nodded. "I haven't really slept well in months..." He leaned his stick against the faded overstuffed chair and moved closer to him.

Sherlock took off his scarf with trembling fingers and whispered, "I play the violin at all hours, helps me to think..."

"I have nightmares - bad ones -" he took the scarf from Sherlock's fingers and laid it carefully on the back of Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock bit his lip, then murmured, "I may not talk for days, you mustn't think -" He took one long step to close the distance between them.

"Once I know what I want - I will go to great lengths to keep it safe." John whispered as he laid a gentle hand along a sharp angle, sighing as he felt Sherlock lean into his touch.

"Promise?"

"Hmmm. Would you mind terribly if I kissed you?"

"Please?"

John reached into those dark curls and drew Sherlock closer, lightly brushing his lips with his own, and finally releasing the breath he had been holding, then muttered, "I've been wanting to do that from the moment we met. We'll be a disaster."

Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned. "Agreed." He bent over John and nuzzled his neck. "But, I'm willing to -" He slipped John's light jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, "try if you are. You know where I was going when you bumped into me, or I bumped into you -"

"Yessss -" John nodded as he felt Sherlock's fingers on the hem of his jumper and closed his eyes tightly against the pain of raising both arms as Sherlock paused before carefully lifting it over his head. 

"Breathe, John. Left shoulder?" He moved his head in the affirmative and fought the tears that sprang to his eyes. Sherlock kissed his forehead lightly and his voice dropped even lower. "I'll be gentle, I promise. Is it all right if I see - I won't if you'd rather not, but I think you are aware of my scars - yours at least -"

John opened his eyes as Sherlock stopped speaking and tried to turn away. He reached for his hands, and pressed his lips to Sherlock's scarred wrists. "No - don't. I went to war to - for the same reasons you do this - to lose myself - to not feel - to forget." He let go of Sherlock's hands, unbuttoned his own shirt, then placed Sherlock's fingers over the damage. "My scars are no different than yours."

Sherlock met John's eyes and found his voice once more. "Can I - may I take you to bed, John?"

'"Please."

Sherlock took John by the hand leading him through the maze of boxes and papers and into a sanctuary of order. "I don't sleep very often either, when I do -" John helped Sherlock out of his great coat, then his jacket hit the floor, and finally John's fingers undid the overworked buttons one by one. They both stilled, then Sherlock shimmied out of the silk shirt and yawned miserably. John chuckled as he wrapped his strong arms around the slumped figure, holding him tightly against his chest. "Let's see how we do at sleeping together first, hmm?"

 

"Who's this, then?" Lestrade gave John the once over as he crouched down to examine the victim.

"He's with me." Sherlock muttered as he picked up her hand for a moment then laid it back down again.

"But, who is he?"

Sherlock rose to his full height, and met Lestrade's questioning glance with a roll of his eyes and sigh of resignation. "I said, 'he's with me.' Do you want what I have or -"

Lestrade grinned in spite of his frustration. "As in -?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. "As in, if you ask him nicely, he might enjoy going to the local with you on those rare nights when we aren't shagging until we pass out -"

"Congrats! Now, gimme what you got - this case - all this bloody - "

"Pink." John got to his feet, removed his gloves then offered Lestrade his hand. "John Watson."

Lestrade shook his hand and mumbled, "pink?"

"Yup, she's missing a small case, overnight, probably, but definitely in that rather disturbing shade of pink -" He pointed to the spatter marks on the back of her leg. "There's no phone either - and she would have a phone..."

Sherlock beamed at him, as Lestrade let out a dramatic, "oh, dear Lord, there are two of them now...."


End file.
